


Baptize Me

by myria_chan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Canon Compliant, Consensual Sex, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, after 8x5 we all need palate cleansers, in a way? - Freeform, jaime has beautiful eyes, post TBTWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 07:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18846829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myria_chan/pseuds/myria_chan
Summary: Once is a mistake. Twice is a choice. Thrice is a habit.alternatively: That awkward conversation after the first bang, and their very healthy obsession to keep going at it.





	Baptize Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, remember last week when the world was bright and 8x5 didn't happen. Fun times! XD Anyways~~ I know everyone is feeling down. 90% of the fandom is arguably angry over the past week. Can't wait for Sunday so we can properly compartmentalize our emotions. Soooo...
> 
> On with the pRon!!! 
> 
> Please be informed that this is my first time posting something of explicit and sexual in nature. Be gentle. ;D I popped my cherry for Braime. hahah~

 

* * *

* * *

He was panicking, pacing on the floorboards with a carefully rehearsed litany about drunken misjudgments, social statuses and propriety. His infernal undershirt was haphazardly laced, drawstrings swaying in asymmetrical lengths, tension to his heel, willfully barefooted, raking his fingers through the halo of sleep-sated locks, the lines on his jaw as tight as his shoulders. Firelight and morning light danced, casting shadows upon his taut features, afflicting the handsome planes of his handsome face in generous cuts of harried highlights.

It was refreshing seeing him in distress.

All their previous meetings, he displayed an aura of spiteful confidence, privilege tightly laced into arrogance, brandishing his position, his authority, his power with naught but a raise of an eyebrow, an acerbic remark, and a casual mention of his thrice-damned family name—the very epitome of an excessively entitled cock.

All it took was night of drunken escapade and he seemed… lost.

“I offer no regrets,” Brienne spoke, clutching the furs closer to her naked frame, meeting his gaze in poised regality no armor, nor title, nor weapon could provide.

She was not immune to men constantly ridiculing her. Words were wind, her father used to say, but the jibes of men were a howling tempest, regarding her looks a running joke; her accomplishments an atrocity to the norm; her principles as disconcerting as her existence. A knight or a lady— _always_ she had to choose, honoring one while forsaking the other; will never be a true warrior for she was born a maiden; will never be a true maiden for she had the soul of a warrior.

Jaime Lannister made her both.

Knighting her was a declaration. Embracing her femininity on the other hand was a revelation.

He was her choice—her first amongst many—and no amount of ridicule nor tittle-tattle could take away the ecstasy of celebrating her womanhood with an honorable man whom she held in the highest of regards.

“It was… pleasant.”

An understatement, she knew, but an unquestionable truth nonetheless.

Jaime’s face folded.

“Pleasant,” he repeated the word. Brienne looked up, recognizing that tone. It was a tone men use whenever their delicate egos were belted. “Like a pastry? Like a swordfight? Like a walk in the park?” he gaped as if in disbelief, as if she struck him; flung the word like a curse, “ _Pleasant_?”

She forehead furrows, feels a smile lift at the corner of her lips. “Are you fishing for compliments?”

She only meant to tease him. His reaction was to turn bright red, color visible from the hem of his barely laced shirt, rising from his chest and neck; suddenly feigning fascination on the scabbard of her sword against the fireplace.

Brienne pursed her lips. It was beginning to be embarrassing: her uncanny ability to see through him.  Not in her wildest dream did she ever envision Jaime Lannister rendered speechless, vulnerable against the consequential bliss of one night shared under hot, tangled sheets. It’s as if their physical intimacy held more effect to his state of mind than it did with hers.

Clearing her throat, she surmised the best way to handle the rising speculation was to present the cold, hard truth. “I don’t believe I am in a right position to offer comparison given my experience.”

 _Or lack thereof,_ she opted not to add, hoping he’d follow up with a witty repartee or a douse of dry cynicism, anything to make their little banter more lighthearted, familiar, less out of depth, unburdened by minor implications.

Jaime chuckled, a sound that was foreign as it was deep and genuine. “That sounds like an invitation.”

Their gazes met and the smiles die on their lips. Heat settled in the room—heat from the furnace, heat from the pale morning light, heat from the depths of his expressive eyes—crawled up her skin like a lover’s caress, warming her neck and face, seeping through her bloodstream, pulses reignited, senses heightened to memories of passion found and shared.

Briefly, she caught a glimpse of his chest hair peeking through the shirt laces. 

“Come closer,” her words passed by like the gentle winter winds.

She watched Jaime wrestle with himself, the muscles of his jaw line taut, left foot forward, right foot back—hesitant and entranced—a dance for curiosity and self-control. Jaime smirked, proverbial and insufferable, a golden lion through and through, gauging, predatory, not even a maimed paw could blemish the aristocratic air he imposed, eyes brimming with forbidden, unbridled colors.

Jaime had always the most fascinating eyes. They were a peculiar color of green with a hint of hazel in the mix. In diplomacy, they sport an impermeable emeraldine luster—their intent as rich and as expensive as his principles. In a fight, or simply engaged in a verbal bout, they’re ruthless jades of scorn and contempt. In laughter, especially around his brother, they were a comforting tone of forest and shamrocks, lush with mirth and fondness.

Here, in the confines of her bedchamber, they bore upon her in muted molten green of desire, immodest, unnerving, undressing her, daring to bare her soul in daylight and firelight. In the same light, they brandish apprehension, reality a heavy anchor of caution, assessing their position, questioning his chances, doubts tangled in ribbons of hopes and dreams.

Brienne drew the covers tighter, trapped in mixed signals, licking her lips; his green eyes darting in focus, captivated.

The bed dipped as he settled to her side, creaking at their combined weight. He spared her a wobbly smile, gaze intent memorizing her face before he closed his eyes and leaned forward.

Her response was to unlace the drawstring of his undershirt. His eyes snapped open in equal parts of amusement and surprise.

“It was annoying me,” she said without heat, breathing resolve back to her bloodstream, tugging on the drawstrings. “You really need to learn how to fasten your shirt laces properly.”

Brienne was pinned to the headboard a heartbeat later; mouth hot on her lips as if kissing her was the only thread to sanity he had left. She offered no form of struggle, hands winding around his neck. She let herself melt into the kiss, throwing all caution to the winds, relishing in the feeling of living and enjoying the complex simplicity of joy life had to offer.

Jaime pulled away abruptly, breathless. “I’m sorry.”

“You kissed me.”

“I know.” He kissed her once more. “My sincerest apologies.”

“Didn’t you establish this is inappropriate?” Another one.

“Definitely.” Then, one more.

There was no alcohol to blame this time, no celebration against the war amongst the dead to tarnish the craving that fueled their attraction. Jaime Lannister wanted her as much as she wanted him. Her mind felt heady with this realization, drunk in surprise and delight. Tangling her fingers through his hair, pulling him down, she opened her mouth and surrendered to plundering of his tongue, tasting the flavors of his groans and whimpers.

Jaime pulled back, barely stood at his feet before he had the compulsive urge to bend down to sample her lips yet again like a sacrament, delirious from the high and the salvation her kisses. “My lady,” he murmured against her mouth, right before his met hers once again, “this is madness.”

His conviction was as weightless as his request, and for a moment, Brienne almost took pity upon him. Even in the precipice of total abandon, he still had enough consideration for her virtue.

Smiling, she plants a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Take me.”

And so he did.

* * *

* * *

Kissing Brienne was like baptism.

Redemption coursed through his frantic veins in salvific torrents, lust tempered by hasty, fumbling kisses—pure and unpracticed—washing him clean of his ties, stripping him of his sins, drowning all his fears, setting him free.

She was a new religion. He wanted nothing more than to worship her at her feet.

He dampened her pleas with hot searing kisses, hands wanderlust against her curves. He murmured promises in the spaces in between, calming and serene, betraying no signs of the raging conflict inside of him, and she shuddered in anticipation of what could come next.

Sometimes, when she asked for it, when the visceral need for completion overweighed the substantial need for intimacy, he would let go of pretense to demonstrate how the merest of her caresses, of glances, of words were just enough to send him over the edge, losing himself so she could find him.

Tonight was different.

Tonight, she desired to be spoiled. Tonight, she desired to be taken to the point of mindlessness.

“ _Jaime_ …”

His name was a sigh of a song she breathed, the sweetest of her incantations; he relished the shiver that ran down his spine. Lacing their fingers together, he planted a kiss on her knuckles before his mouth maraud the expanse of her neck, worrying the jut of her collarbones until he made his mark.

Satisfied, he claimed the peak of her breast and let her sing his name in crescendo. Brienne gave a lusty, sultry cry—her voice was his music and he indulged in the symphony she created—fingers threading though his hair, drawing him close. When he turned his attention to her other breast, her music became wanton and pliant, hips rising against the taut lines of his stomach for _more_.

“Soon,” he rasped, biting back the moan from feeling her warmth pressing tightly on him, her scent almost intoxicating.

Inviting.

 _Patience_ , he counted. _Patience_. He had mastered the language of her body enough to know that she could be more erratic, more demanding, more abandoned. Experience had taught him where to touch and tease until she was desperate to be taken, until she was begging for release.

His lips continued their journey, trailing fire and heat where they touch, dancing on the flat of her stomach, her thighs, the length of legs, all to way to her feet and toes. She moaned as his tongue delved into her navel. Skimming downward still, he stopped to catch her gaze, his fingers prowling over her heated flesh, teasing the opening that was hot, wet, and eager for him. He bathed his fingers with her heated moisture, and then set out on the bundle of nerves that demand his attention, catching the hidden nubbin, began to rhythmically soothe it, torment it.

Her entire body rippled, heels dug against the mattress, as she arched to his hand, craving, lurching, grabbing and kissing him, setting a tempo that was determined to wring out the sanity of her. Sensing she needed one more push to send her over the edge, he took one prominent nipple into his mouth and feasted.

She opened her mouth to scream, and let out a long, lustful whine as the sensation proved to be too much, and she shattered.

Delicious, he thought: her face contoured in an amalgamation of pleasure and marvel, her hair wild over the furs and bedspread, her body reddened with his marks and her pent-up passion, twisting half-on, half-off the bed, blue eyes glazed with adoration until they darkened beyond coherence, biting her lips, holding back the inevitable for a chance to savor the climb one second longer.

Jaime caressed her through her orgasm, content in watching her descent from high. This was his pledge—to see her writhe over and over and _over again_ until her satisfaction became theirs. Ravishing was what she was but when she lets her inhibitions go, when her walls crumble, she was breathtaking.

He gratified in the knowledge that he alone could bring her to the edge of oblivion and pull her back the safety of his arms. He alone was her sanctuary and the source of her madness.

Stretching languidly, she delighted in the aftershocks of passion coursing; a breathless, sinfully sweet mewl when the first rush abated. Jaime pressed his lips on her forehead then, letting the shivers ebb, waiting, enduring, until the dormant tension he built flowed, turning her sated whimper to a plea for _more_.

Spreading her legs apart, he used his mouth to give her pleasure the second time.

She said he was quenchless, and that was the truth. He drank the heady passion with a hunger he cannot completely satiate. He milked the essence of her desire with playful fingers. He partook in the poetry of her broken cries and the lullabies of her pleas. Closing her eyes, she was carried away by the second wave.

This time she did scream.

He hummed his approval against her skin, fire crawling on its wake. Arms finding her hips, he pressed closer and surged forward, growling like a feral beast as his heated flesh comes in contact with her welcoming warmth. _Almost_. It almost made him come. Gritting his teeth, he tried valiantly to grasp the shackles of his control, feared to lose to the roars of his libido. 

There was a storm brewing inside his stomach; he metered the battering wind of impulse with a steady rhythm, in cadence to their hammering hearts, dousing flame per flame with a desire past the point of completion, painting a picture that was earthy and elemental. This was harmony, he believed, a simple act of balance.

Until she shifted underneath, locking her legs over his back, throwing their rhythm out of place.

“ _Please_ ,” she repeated; he became the storm and she clawed onto his shoulders for dear life. Fire became all too overwhelming, all too consuming, all too riveting. She braved the storm with him by her side and they were engulfed by a waiting sun. 

He caught her fall, planting soft, soft kisses to her eyes, nose, jaw and everywhere his mouth could reach, smoothing away the tears that had gathered on her face. She met those lips with her own, arms instinctively snaking around the broad expanse of his back, remembering to breathe in gasps.

This wasn’t love, Jaime tried to convince himself. Love was akin to family, to loyalty, to manipulation and deceit. Love broke him, betrayal after betrayal, in sacrifices that were as needless as they were senseless.

 _Brienne doesn’t break him,_ his mind argued with his heart, _therefore she cannot be love._

For a moment, he was at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Well~~? Pointers? Errors? Kudos? Thank you very much for reading! Have a great week, fam! <3


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